


To Himling: Part Six

by vetiverite



Series: To Himling [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Brothers, Coma, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, Durincest, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, Gentle Sex, Ghost Thorin, Ghost Thrain, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Intrigue, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Tauriel? Who's Tauriel?, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-25 16:29:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20028859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: The brothers break many rules for their love.  Will they continue to be so bold when their mother discovers their secret?





	1. Held

Once, there were two tight-clasped hands— one smaller than the other, but no less tenacious. Mother picked them apart finger by finger as their mournful owners watched, unable to help, unable to stop. 

_It's like unhitching a handfasted couple, _Father joked, which made Mother laugh. Even though they no longer slept in the same bed, they were great friends and never spoke wounding words to each other. 

He carried Fíli, she Kíli. The boys never cried at the parting point, only watched each other recede down the hallway, eyes round and impossibly sad. No matter. Come morning, Fenja would discover them curled together in a tight knot on the rug, fast asleep before a kitchen hearth gone cold.

___________________ 

Once, two brothers held each other in the courtyard sun. Toe to toe they stood, heads upon each other's shoulders, thin childish arms encircling narrow ribs. Dís watched with curiosity for a long while, expecting them to break apart at any moment. They did not. 

Men's embraces are hasty affairs— swift, restless, always justified by an alliance to forge or a fence to mend. But the brothers embraced one another without motive, as if it were an end in itself, as if there was nothing - chasing or racing or battling trolls - they'd rather do now or couldn't do later, if they felt like it. 

_Cheek to cheek again, I see,_ older Khazâd would mock, but Dís’ sons never minded. _I want to hold you,_ said one. _Yes, me too, right now! _said the other. It was as simple as that.

___________________ 

Once, by the kitchen hearth sat a dark-haired boy with a tear-stained face. Cut to the quick by one reprimand too many, he watched flame consume wood and wished he, too, could turn to insubstantial ash. 

His mother sat at the table calculating how many ponies and hay-bales it took to turn a small surplus into a large debt. The answer made her scowl, but so did the silence. She could not have borne Kíli’s noise today, but its absence somehow tugged at her conscience. 

A blond-haired boy came in and hunkered down by Kíli’s side. Golden daylight; evening star. Not a word passed between them; they only looked at one another. Then it happened. Tears brimmed and spilled from the blond’s eyes, merely from the sight of his younger brother in pain. 

As her sons reached for each other, Dís heard a light scuff of leather on stone. There behind her stood Thorin, watching. He did not speak or try to stop the embrace; nor did he regard it with confusion or contempt. He only nodded, as if a long-withheld question had at last been answered.


	2. Signs

Brotherhood can be measured in blended belongings: tunics and wristlets and belt knives on loan, swapped gloves and socks, shared toys. One can gauge it by traded looks, inside jokes, stories told in tandem. It sometimes finds expression in swung fists and kicked shins. But Dís’ sons had moved beyond all of these things. The signs were plain, if one had eyes to see them. 

Dís noticed it first at table. Normally her sons elbowed each other, scrabbling to grab the serving spoon, playfully filching food from one another’s plate. Now, as Dís watched, Fíli served Kíli first and only afterward himself. Thence proceeded a quaint, gradual communion, as the best bits from each plate ended up on the other— given, not taken. Neither said a word about it, and Dís understood: they were feeding one another, each giving of his own to nourish the other. This Dís found very beautiful, and so she left it alone. 

Then her perception shifted to a new angle, one more puzzling. 

Kíli dipped a morsel of bread in honey and held it for a moment, then slid it below the edge of the table. A moment later it reappeared in Fíli’s hand en route to his lips. Both licked honey from their fingers, which one might expect. But how they did it – slowly, with savor, closing their eyes, leaning shoulder against shoulder — made a difference. 

They poured one another’s wine, though not for long; one day they quietly began to share a single cup. And not just that; they offered it to one another. Always. Neither ever just picked it up and drank for himself anymore. 

When did this begin? 

They talked less but touched more, and differently than before. An arm about the waist instead of slung over the shoulders; a thumb idly stroking a hipbone. Sidelocks once ruthlessly tugged now slipped like silk through reverent fingertips; knuckles tenderly brushed the curve of a cheek. 

And another thing: their eyes. Brothers and friends face the world side by side, gazing outward in unison. Fíli and Kíli gazed at each other. Not mere glances; long, soft looks and shy smiles— as if they had just met; as if each had just discovered a brand-new world meant only for him to explore. They gawked at one another so much it was almost embarrassing. Who watches his brother when he isn't looking? Who continues to watch when he is? 

Dís, too, was watching. Still she held her tongue. 

Then one morning her sons came into the kitchen where she and Fenja stood talking. As they sat down at the table, Dís froze. 

Each had woven his own ornaments into the other’s hair. 

Dís strove to craft a plausible rationale. Clearly, her boys did not realize the significance of their exchange. Growing up sequestered among bachelors, widows, widowers, elders— it only stood to reason, didn't it? It wasn’t their fault that no one had explained the finer points. Besides, couldn't propriety stretch to encompass the odd habit, the singular sentiment? After all, Dís’ sons had always been remarkably close. They simply didn’t realize the best way to express it; that was all. 

She attempted to broach the subject that evening. _Do you know what our crests signify?_

Together they recited it in humorous sing-song: _Who-we-are-where-we-come-from-what-our-lineage-is._ Kíli snickered and elbowed Fíli. 

_Correct,_ Dís said, endeavoring to sound unworried. _Did you know that no two are alike? That makes them easy to identify. The way they are worn— and by whom— means something too._

Silence. Her sons looked at her with mild interest. 

_Our hair ornaments, for example. Fenja and I are widows; Bhurin’s a bachelor, as are all your friends. All of us wear our own crests because we have no one else’s to wear. Your uncle Thorin also wore his own because he wasn’t married._

Neither brother so much as blinked. 

Switching tactics, Dís addressed Fíli directly. _You are wearing Kíli’s ornaments and he is wearing yours. Do you know what that tells other people?_

_That we’re brothers?_ Fíli replied. 

Was he mocking her? Dís could not tell. Normally artless Kíli would provide some clue, but his unselfconscious gaze told her nothing. Or maybe the two of them were shameless— but shamelessness, Dís would learn, is not the same as being unashamed.


	3. Full Moon's Light

A day came when Dís rounded a corner and found that, in a sense, her sons had as well. 

They stood at the end of the corridor, illuminated by a moonbeam knifing through an archer’s arrowslit. At first glance, they could have been sharing breath as all Khazâd did— standing close, brow pressed to brow, hands braced upon each other’s shoulders in the traditional way. But no. Mouths joined and drinking deep, separating briefly only to fuse again… and their hands, their hands, caressing and cradling as if each was treasure without price to the other… 

So engrossed, they never even noticed they were not alone. 

Her first thoughts ran to fury and retribution. _How dare they! How dare— in this house, MY house!_ If not for the attention it would attract, she’d have broken a birch rod to splinters on their backs right then and there. 

But Kíli pulled back to smooth his brother’s brow with his fingers, and Fíli turned his face to kiss Kíli’s cupped palm— a gesture Dís instantly recognized. Her sons looked into each other’s eyes, and the love in that look staggered her so deeply, indeed filled her with such disgrace for spying, that all she could do was retreat.

___________________ 

In her room she paced from wall to wall— every sign, every clue of the past moon avalanching down upon her. 

_The Heir and his own brother! Love-dazed for each other and not even trying to hide it!_ Had they lost their wits? Thank Mahal it had been her and no one else in that corridor. Anyone could have come along. _Anyone_. The thought of it lanced her heart like an icicle— but so did the fact that she had been the one to see them. Her own sons, born of her, raised by her. She would give anything now to have gone another route that night, to have chosen another way through the quiet house… 

No. No. Hers was not the wrong choice. Hers were not the actions that must be questioned. 

She reached for the bell.


	4. Truth

_Stand,_ Dís ordered Fíli as she cast herself into her chair. 

Often enough they had argued standing toe to toe; often enough he had gone to his knees to ask for her pardon. But the discussion to follow had no precedent, no equal. 

_You and Kíli,_ she said. 

Silence filled the room to every corner, every crack. 

_I saw you. Remain standing! _she warned as he wavered on his feet. Again: _I_ saw _you._

_Mother,_ Fíli whispered, pale. 

_What can I say? I could not believe my eyes. I am still not sure I should._

If Fíli had wished to hide or deny it, this would have been the moment to do so. 

_Believe them,_ he replied. 

She answered his subdued tone with a sharper one. _When did this begin?_

Fíli shook his head. 

_You live under _my _roof. Don’t you dare refuse me an answer._

_I was not daring—_

_You have dared a lot!_

_No, Mother— I was—_

_Answer me! How long has it been so?_

It burst from him, sudden and vehement. _When has it not?_

Penning up her breath, Dís waited to hear the words. 

_He, Kíli, and I— we—_ Fíli held out his hands. _We are one; we have always been one._

_And that’s all there is to say about it?_

In a hoarse whisper he repeated: _He and I are one._ With that, he cast himself down into the supplicant’s pose. 

It occurred to Dís that although he knelt in readiness for judgment’s blows, Fíli had not – as so often before – said he was sorry. He would not, could not, because he was not. 

_Go, _she commanded Fíli harshly so as to mask the ache gripping her heart. 

Without hope: _Go where?_

_Anywhere, so long as it's out of my sight. Don't dare show your face to me until I summon you again. And send Kíli to me._ At this, Fíli looked up sharply, but Dís' gaze was like an iron blade, honed and drawn and ready to cut deep. 

Shivering, he hastened to obey.


	5. Wolves

Durins learn early to conceal their feelings. First it is part of their education; later it becomes a point of pride. But artless Kíli never mastered this skill. He could not grasp why anyone needed it, least of all those he loved. 

In the family's most tense moments, he foundered alone. Why was everyone so quiet? Did no one see him sinking; would no one meet his eye? They were all angry at him. What had he done? What could he do better, or different, to fix it? 

Nothing. 

_Mother knows about us, Zanid._

Dread raced through him from scalp to soles; words turned to shards in his mouth. _But, but I sss— SAW her, sh-sh, she www-was, wasn’t angry—_

_That’s because she'd already talked to me._

When Fíli stumbled upstairs, he'd been so pale that Kíli ran to him, thinking he might fall. But he fended off Kíli's arms and told him, _Go to Mother; she wants you right away._ So Kíli went to Mother, but she had nothing to say to him. She made him sit down so that she could braid and undo and rebraid his hair, over and over, as if she could not get it right. He tried to turn around, but she said _No, Kíli. Face forward. You'll ruin it._

Now he knew he had already, and he crumpled. 

Understanding little, answering not at all, he listened to Fíli speak from very far away. _She is angry at me, not at you, 'ibinê. We were careless tonight, and she saw. It's my fault. I knew I should have waited until we were in our room. I should have protected you better._

He tasted salt and copper; reflexively, he'd been chewing the tip of his thumb. It wasn’t very nice, but it would prevent him crying. No one liked that; Thorin told him so— 

_It's ours, Zanid. It belongs to us, only to us. They cannot steal or spoil it. They cannot make it into a wrong. I don't care if they punish me, but they will not touch you. I won't let them._

But even if they did, it would not matter; the terror would swallow him up faster than he could fight. 

_I'll take you away,_ Fíli was saying in a voice clipped and tight with fury. _Let them send Bhurin or Dwalin or Dáin after us— they won't take me from you or you from me—_ Zanid! 

Fíli had reached to take Kíli’s bloodied thumb away from his mouth only to find his own hand seized between Kíli's teeth— not hard, not hurtfully, but in pure animal fright. He did not pull away; instead he stroked Kíli’s beard with his free fingertips. 

_You little cub,_ he said quietly. _What did I do, that you bite me?_

Kíli had never fought any wild beast stronger than his own fear, and it was at its most savage now. But he forced himself to look up and past it, and found there only his Nadad-Mim, whom he loved and to whom he belonged. He relaxed his jaws, tasting Fíli's skin in little silky-wet, apologetic licks before relinquishing him. 

_Are you here with me, Kílimê?_ asked Fíli, fingertips still stroking. 

Exhausted, Kíli nodded. 

_You always let me find you, even when I've scared you away. _And he pulled Kíli down onto the bed beside him. 

Moving with wooden stiffness, Kíli fit himself under his brother’s arm, hiding his face in the hollow where Fíli's musky, soothing scent was strongest. In a little while Fíli felt tears seeping through his thin summer tunic right over his heart. 

_Sshhh, magahhûn..._

_Call me cub again,_ Kíli whispered, plucking at Fíli’s tunic laces. 

_Cub,_ obliged Fíli, watching himself become untied. He dipped his head to catch the animal scent of Kíli’s hair. 

_What kind?_

_Bear, _Fíli replied, then hissed softly at a cascade of sensations: cool night air, warm breath, wiry beard, soft mouth at his nipple. _Or wolf, maybe._

Low and broken: _I’m not. I'm not a wolf._ Which was to say, I am not strong like a Durin should be strong. 

_Ssshh..._ Fíli lifted his hand to cup the back of Kíli's head, guiding him in. 

A wet tongue-tip, seeking, finding; a shuddering sigh; more tears. 

Kíli had not done this since he was small; he must be very frightened now, Fíli thought. He tried to relax his body so that only peace would pass between them— not this dread increasing minute by minute. But it was no use. Anger rose up in him, a fearsome surge of anger toward anyone who would threaten what he held in his arms. 

_We are one, _he had told Dís. He knew no other way to be; he saw no other life. If someone came at this moment to rip Kíli from him, he'd bare his teeth, rise up in a rage, draw blood, drive them back... 

_No, you are not a wolf,_ he told Kíli. _I am._


	6. Visions

In her room - quiet now that she was alone - Dís covered her face for many excruciating minutes. Her expression when she removed her hands was no longer indignant, only drawn and tired. 

The air still thrummed with anger: her own, not her sons’. Fíli’s answers had been properly meek; he had knelt before her and pressed his forehead to the floor, as a wrongdoer should. Kíli’s desperate effort – and failure – to fathom her distress broke her heart anew. Then he was gone, and discord thick and sickening remained behind with her. She was its mother, as much as she was Fíli’s or Kíli’s. 

_Do not lose the thread, _she warned herself. _You are not to blame. Remember what you saw: moonlight shining down on the ruins of our family._

But she could not make it so by any amount of self-deceit. They, her sons, were _(you should not think this, you MUST NOT think this!)_ beautiful together. They belonged not just _with_ each other, but _to_ each other, in a way that made sundering them unthinkable. And yet Dís had thought it. As she’d torn a comb roughly through a cringing, frightened Kíli’s hair, she’d fantasized about turning Fíli out, driving him from the stronghold to prevent him infecting his brother with his depravity, his madness… 

But was the madness truly his? Never before had she been of a mind to beat her own children; still less to banish them– never. Loosed like an arrow before she could restrain it, that impulse left her aghast at her own savagery. _Would I inflict wounds upon my sons for what they feel? Am I the one whose wits are lost?_

The thought stopped her like a rockslide across a road; it took a hasty swallow of mead to induce her to climb. 

_In love._ All this time, unheard, unnoticed, under the canopy of simple siblinghood, they had been proclaiming it as clearly and joyfully as a shout from the crest of a mountain. But such a thing is not meant to be shouted. It cannot ever be made known— did Fíli and Kíli not see? They had always been safest and happiest in each other’s company, as had Thorin and Frerin. They might remain so within the protective walls of Thorinutumnu. But in Erebor… 

_In Erebor._

Before the hour was out, Dís sent a hawk speeding to Tharkûn.


End file.
